


they do not deserve you

by vivelapluto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, wonder woman! au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: "i used to want to save the world". or, prince enjolras of themyscira, captain grantaire, spy for the british army, and a fight for justice it seems they are bound to lose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddlyqueer/gifts).



> hi guys! so basically this whole idea was inspired by @liberteegalitepansexualite on tumblr! it's an enjoltaire wonder woman!au, and i make no promises about regular updates. please bear with me, i'm a half-dead student :)

Grantaire had royally fucked this up. Navigation had never been his strong suit; he’d been hired for his ability to keep a secret, not fly a plane. But here he was, watching his compass spin wildly out of control, hunkering down against a gust of wind, and trying to figure out where on Earth he was.

He was supposed to be en route back to London, but the water beneath him was far too bright a blue to be even remotely close to London. It reminded him of the Mediterranean, but God, he couldn’t have been that far off-course, could he? 

As the sky turned a dark, foreboding grey, and thunder rumbled in the distance, Grantaire realized that he had to find somewhere to land soon. He squinted against the quickening wind, but there didn’t seem to be an island in sight.

_ Shit. _

There was another clap of thunder, and then the rain started to fall. All at once, Grantaire couldn’t see anything. His hair was flattened by the torrential downpour, and all he could register was the fact that the plane was spiraling  _ dangerously  _ out of control.

One of the wings had snapped off, he realized a moment later.

He was sinking like a stone, frantically slamming the controls but getting nowhere.

_ So this is how I’m going to die. _

He wondered if anyone would remember him when he was gone.

But he was a spy, and not even a highly ranked or decorated one.

_ I seriously doubt it,  _ was his last clear thought, before the raging ocean swallowed him whole.

* * *

 

There was a man on the beach. Enjolras had never seen him before. 

He looked dead.

Enjolras crept closer, hand resting on the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip, just in case.

The man wasn’t moving. He was wearing some sort of uniform, but the embroidery was too torn and sodden to decipher. It was only when Enjolras caught the rise and fall of his chest that he realized this man, in fact,  _ wasn’t  _ dead.

Enjolras peered closer, leaning in so their faces were inches apart, and wondering if he should slap him, or throw water on him, or just gently shake him awake—

The man gasped, eyes flying open, coughing up salt water.

Enjolras nimbly leapt back a step, drawing his sword. “Who are you?”

“Is this heaven?” came the man’s slurred reply.

* * *

 

_ My God, is that an angel?  _ Grantaire thought, staring dazedly at the man standing above him. 

His skin was of the slightest tan, face holding a regal structure that reminded Grantaire of ancient sculptures of the gods, framed by a halo of golden hair, and his eyes—They were  _ radiant,  _ bluer than even the brightest of skies.

Surely, he was in heaven.

“I said,” the man said, a lilting accent coloring his words. “Who are you?”

“That’s a sword,” Grantaire stammered in reply. It was, in fact, a very sharp sword, being pointed right at him. “Am I dead?”

“I highly doubt that,” the man replied. “Unless I, too, am dead, but I do not think that is the case.” 

“Where the fuck am I? And who are you?” Grantaire tried to get to his feet, but he stumbled. “God, my head is  _ pounding.”  _ He nearly collapsed back into the sand again.

“I am Prince Enjolras of Themyscira,” the man replied.

* * *

 

“Bless you.” 

“I’m sorry?” Enjolras frowned, furrowing his brow in confusion. A moment later he realized the man still had yet to introduce himself. He leveled the sword at his chest. “Reveal yourself, intruder.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry. Captain Grantaire. Of the British Army. Well, I’m a spy, really—”

Enjolras pointed the sword closer, so the point of the blade just barely brushed against him. “ _ Spy?  _ Who told you of this place?”

He recoiled, talking a mile a minute. “No, I’m a spy for the good guys. Britain. We’re against Germany, and obviously—they’re a bunch of psychos.”

Enjolras frowned. He had heard of these countries before, in the books, but, “why do they require a spy?”

The man— _ Grantaire _ —arched a brow. “You’re kidding, right, Angel Boy?”

“Enjolras,” he corrected, still not moving the sword. “Did your country send you here? How did you discover this place?”

“If you must know,” Grantaire said, his voice both sheepish and indignant. “I, uh . . . My plane got caught in a storm. I crashed, and next thing I remember is this.”

“Which of the gods sent you? Poseidon, I assume, if you were brought here by sea.” Enjolras could feel the fear rising in his chest, but he said nothing. He had to tell the others, get their attention somehow. Grantaire had found them, had found the safe haven this place was supposed to be.

“Which of the  _ gods?  _ None of them! I wish they would pay attention, though, with this bloody war that’s going on, it would be nice to have a god on our side.”

“War?” Enjolras’ heart skipped a beat. 

Taking little care to be gentle, he grabbed Grantaire’s arm, yanking him off the ground. 

Amidst his continued complaints—” _ Ow! What the hell, Angel Boy?” _ — Enjolras dragged him away from the beach, towards the village.

“You should not be here,” he said. “You should not have found this place—”

“Hey, Prince, it looks like I’m not the only one who did,” Grantaire replied, pointing.

Enjolras whirled around at the sound of gunshots, dropping Grantaire onto the rocks in the process. 

A plane materialized on the horizon.

Then, a ship.

Dozens of men began to storm the beach, waving flags and yelling in a language it took Enjolras a minute to classify as German.

“And those,” Grantaire said, standing up and balancing on the rocks, “are the bad guys.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire had assumed the population of this island consisted of one Angel Boy. He could not have been more wrong. Enjolras turned around, and Grantaire nearly slipped and fell on the rocks again as dozens of soldiers thundered out from behind the sea cliffs on horseback, shooting flaming arrows into the sky.

_ Christ,  _ he was either dead or impossibly wasted at this point. He had to be.

Enjolras didn’t hesitate before charging into battle after them, leaving Grantaire behind.

He only paused for a minute before following. Mind-blowing as this whole situation was, he was a soldier. And this was the enemy.

Grantaire grabbed his pistol and strode into the fray.

* * *

 

Enjolras had trained his whole life for battle. He should have been prepared, this should have been easy for him.

_ Should have. _

But these men—these Germans, these  _ intruders _ — did not fight honorably. Not like Enjolras had been trained.

They remained on their ships, on their planes, shooting from a distance like cowards.

Their swords could only reach so far, and their bullets could reach farther.

“Enjolras!” the voice was shrill, panicked.

He whirled around, but it was too late—a figure leapt through the air towards him, firing an arrow just as a bullet collided with her chest. She crumpled to the ground.

Enjolras fell to his knees beside her.

* * *

 

**10 Years Ago**

_ “Father, I’d like to learn how to train, someday, like the others.” _

_ Enjolras already knew what he would say—”it’s far too dangerous”. He’d heard it a thousand times before, every time he asked. But he’d hoped today would be different _

_ Really, it was a rather foolish hope for him to have. _

_ He turned away, traipsing out of the throne room. On his way out, a hand caught his arm, pulling him into a corridor. _

_ Fantine, one of his father’s most trusted advisors and talented generals, offered him a smile. “I could train you, you know.” _

_ “It’s far too dangerous,” Enjolras echoed almost automatically. _

_ “What your father does not know cannot hurt him,” was Fantine’s reply. _

_ When she exited the palace through a side door, making to disappear into the nearby woods, Enjolras followed. _

_ Despite her kind act in offering to train him, Enjolras’s sessions with Fantine were anything but. She treated him just as she did her other soldiers, hardened for battle. Though it was tiring, Enjolras relished in that fact, and every night he collapsed into bed with the knowledge that he was becoming a hero. _

_ The days faded into months, into years, until tiptoeing around the prying eyes of his father became commonplace. _

_ Until the one day he was careless, and when Enjolras swung his sword towards the straw-and-canvas dummy, there was a resounding  _ clang  _ as his father’s blade met his. “Enjolras. What are you doing?” _

_ Fantine emerged from behind a nearby tree, her gaze defiant. “He must be trained, Your Majesty.” _

_ Enjolras’s father’s gaze was steely. “Have we not talked of this?” _

_ “Father—” Enjolras stepped forward. “For years, I have already been. I—” _

_ Enjolras’s father sighed in defeat. “If you’ve already started, there is little I can do.” _

_ Enjolras bit back a smile. _

_ “But. This is far from a reward. You will train with the others. Do not expect any special treatment.” _

_ “Of course. Thank you, Father.” Enjolras replied, bowing his head. _

_ As his father turned away, Enjolras turned to Fantine. His smile was unabashed.  _

“Thank you.”

* * *

 

Angel Boy had frozen, and Grantaire had no clue what to do.

Even in a state of total despair, he managed to look ethereal—those brilliant blue eyes sparkling with tears, head bowed, golden hair falling over one shoulder. 

Grantaire didn’t realize he was staring until Enjolras’s gaze snapped up, eyes meeting his. 

“Enjolras—?”

He took a shuddering breath.

Grantaire carefully got to his feet, surveying the beach. 

Once a picture-perfect paradise, bodies were now strewn across the sand. The German ship still bobbed in the water, but its sails were tattered.

The warriors on Enjolras’s side that were still standing walked along the beach, tending to the wounded.

Enjolras was still frozen, shell-shocked, bent over the fallen woman.

“Hey, Angel Boy . . .” Grantaire placed a hand on his shoulder.

“ _ Fantine _ ,” was his choked-out reply, before he stood, eyes piercing. “These were your enemy?”

“Oh, uh, yeah . . . It’s all the antics of the war, though . . .”

“ _ War,”  _ Enjolras repeated. Wiping away the last of the tears, he took Grantaire’s arm once more. “You have much to explain, Captain.”

* * *

 

Enjolras schooled his features into a look of composure as he approached the throne room.

His father was sure to be distraught; they all were. They’d lost far too many, and if Grantaire was correct when speaking of this war, Ares’ wrath was just beginning.

“Enjolras,” he said, voice booming. “You have brought one of them?”

Enjolras took a breath. “Father, this is Captain Grantaire of the British Army. He is on the good side of this war. He believes in our cause.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up, Angel Boy. I never said that.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow at him. What was he  _ doing _ ? “But you are on the good side, yes?”

“It’s war. The good side depends on who you’re talking to. Those guys out there? They would’ve probably said the Germans were on the good side.”

“This man,” Enjolras’s father said. “Speaks in riddles. How do we know if we can trust him?”

Enjolras swallowed, dropping his gaze. It was a cruel method in his eyes, but what other choice did they have? “The lasso,” he said softly.

“What’s the lasso?” Grantaire asked.

No one answered him.

A soldier brought it to the king.

“Shall we begin?”


	3. Chapter 3

Magic wasn’t real. Surely, it couldn’t be. But this was all  _ too much  _ to be some dream conjured of too much alcohol, or whatever other substance Grantaire could consume. 

Also, whatever this magic rope was hurt too much for this not to be real. Because it  _ burned,  _ not just his skin but somewhere further within he couldn’t pinpoint. 

“Who are you?” 

Grantaire was a spy, of course, but he couldn’t very well say that, could he? “A soldier,” he started, before, for some reason, his words disobeyed his thoughts, tumbling out unchecked.

“There’s a war going on. The Great War, they’re calling it, the worst there’s ever been.”

It was at this statement—as he finally spoke words that were true, Grantaire realized—that the burning subsided. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, though it was a difficult feat seeing as the lasso was still wound tightly around him. 

Enjolras’s own breath caught as he asked the next question. “A Great War?” he repeated.

Grantaire nodded. “I still don’t know how you guys haven’t heard of it. It’s basically . . . taken over all of Europe at this point.” 

Enjolras turned to his father, and they whispered in hushed voices. Grantaire was only able to discern a few words, though he heard what sounded like ‘Ares’ mentioned a few times.

“And this war, you said it is the worst there’s ever been?” Enjolras’s father—the king, Grantaire realized belatedly—asked.

Grantaire nodded. “It’s ‘the war to end all wars’.” Though he found that description a tad overdramatic, it was what everyone tended to say about it. And as more were lost every day, Grantaire had started to believe it was true.

Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but his father cut him off. “It’s too dangerous, Enjolras.” 

“But—” 

“We’ve already lost Fantine. . .”

At the mention of her name, Grantaire saw Enjolras’s face go pale with grief. 

“Alright,” he finally replied, his tone dejected. 

“Grantaire, you shall spend the night here. In the morning we will discuss what is to become of you.”

There was a slight tug as the golden lasso fell to the ground at his feet. Once the fear dissipated, the stress was onslaught. The reality of what was happening—however unreal it might have seemed—caught up with him, and he struggled to take his next breath.

His legs gave out beneath him and he stumbled to his knees before the throne.

* * *

 

It was nightfall, and Enjolras used the darkness to his advantage as he tiptoed into the throne room, nimble on his feet. The sword was where it had always been.

_ The God-killer,  _ his father had called it, in the stories so long ago.

And this was the war to end all wars. Only one god could be responsible for such a tragedy. 

Enjolras grabbed the sword, slinging it over his back. The blade lit up as he did so, and his eyes widened as he froze in place, waiting for the inevitable moment that his father or one of his generals would appear and catch him trying to steal it.

No, he reminded himself. It wasn’t stealing if it was for a good cause.

He had to defeat Ares. This was his destiny. 

The golden light of the sword illuminated his face, and Enjolras caught a glimpse of his faded reflection in the window. He looked like a hero; for once in his life he didn’t appear to be the outcast. Defiance shining in his eyes, sword in his hands, aureate light creating a halo around him.

It was a shame, really, that he was the only one there to see it.

Though perhaps that was fitting. 

He sheathed the sword, turning to walk away.

It was almost an afterthought that he grabbed the lasso as well, knotting it around his waist so he wouldn’t have to carry it. Then, as quickly as he’d come, he crept out of the throne room. Once he was outside, he walked towards the shoreline, breathing in the faint scent of the ocean and reveling in the sound of crashing waves.

Freedom was close. This was the quest he’d been waiting for his entire life. 

Except—he couldn’t do it alone.

Much as he wanted to, it was simply impractical. He knew nothing of this war, of the politics or the sides or the weaponry. Their rather humiliating defeat on the beach earlier was proof of that. 

He ran up the beach, taking a detour to the secluded caves off to the side, where they’d told Grantaire to stay for the night. He was perched on one of the rocks, staring at a small waterfall that cascaded along the side of the cave.

As he heard Enjolras approach, he turned around. “Hey, Angel Boy,” he said.

Enjolras still found the nickname more than a little irritating (though also slightly endearing, but he’d never admit  _ that.)  _

“We must go,” he said, hoping his tone was urgent enough.

* * *

 

“What?” Grantaire slid off the rocks, walking towards the entrance of the cave. “Go where? Didn’t your dad—sorry, his Majesty—say I had to spend the night? Not that I mind, this cave’s better than the barracks . . .” 

Enjolras just shook his head. Something was definitely off, Grantaire decided. Enjolras’s blue eyes had taken on an almost panicked sort of look to them. “It does not matter. This war—I must end it. Ares has created it, and it is my destiny to—”

“Whoa, hold up,” Grantaire said, trying to decipher what he was saying. “Ares has nothing to do with this. It’s just the Germans and all of their stupid politics.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “No, these Germans . . . he is using them. He has poisoned the minds of the humans. If we defeat Ares, we can stop the war. And as you are a spy—a soldier—you must guide me to him.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. This sounded like something out of a storybook. “You want me to guide you to the god of war.”

Enjolras nodded. “Yes. I’ve gotten us a boat, we should leave before sunrise so my father does not catch us.” 

Stepping forward, he took Grantaire’s hand, and before he could even stop to process it they were out of the caves, running along the beach to where a lone raft bobbed in the water. Grantaire stepped onto it, though Enjolras lingered a moment behind.

“Um, do you need a minute?” he asked.

Enjolras started to reply, but his words were drowned out by the thundering of hooves. As Grantaire looked, he saw a small group of warriors ride up to the beach. At the front was none other than the king.

Enjolras lifted his chin as they approached. “I’m going, Father,” he said. “I must put a stop to this war, innocent people are dying.” There was a short pause, but Grantaire felt like it lasted longer as the entire island seemed to hold its breath before Enjolras said with a sense of finality. “I must go.”

He expected the king to retaliate, to beg him to stay, but he simply said, “I know. Or at least, I know there is no stopping you.”

Enjolras nodded. 

“But . . .Enjolras, there is so much you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough,” Enjolras replied, almost cutting him off. 

“Just remember that should you choose to leave, you may never return.”

“Who will I be if I stay?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t say goodbye. Enjolras turned away from his father, stepping onto the raft.

Grantaire didn’t know what to say. He started to tug at the rope, separating them from the dock. 

Enjolras didn’t speak as the raft began to move, and Grantaire didn’t break the silence. Instead, he followed his gaze, staring at the island until it disappeared completely beyond the horizon. 


	4. Chapter 4

The exhaustion hit Grantaire almost as soon as the shock began to wear off. He’d finally come to terms with the fact that this was actually happening. It wasn’t some wine-induced dream, and as that realization finally seemed to dawn, it was quickly followed by the realization that he hadn’t slept since . . . 

Christ, not since before his plane had taken off, which had to be at least a few days.

Shifting his position on the raft, he let his head rest on one of the bags Enjolras had brought, draping his hand over his forehead and closing his eyes.

It was barely a few seconds before he felt the brush of Enjolras’s arm against his, and they flew back open. “What are you—”

“Sleeping. Is that not what you are doing as well?” Enjolras turned to look at him as he spoke, and Grantaire was acutely aware of how close they were.

If he leaned forward about two inches, they’d be kissing.

At that particular realization, Grantaire felt his face burn. “You, uh,” he sat up, shifting further down the raft. “Don’t have to sleep right next to me, that’s a little, um . . .It’s not a thing people tend to do unless they’re . . .” He cleared his throat, letting the sentence trail off and not finishing it.

He didn’t say anything else, closing his eyes once more and trying to clear his head. But he was heading back to the war with some kind of supernatural hero, said hero more attractive than he should have been (not that Grantaire cared, of course), and he was currently sleeping two feet away from him on a magical raft that had been conjured seemingly from thin air.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like his mind was going to let him get any sleep for a while.

* * *

 

Enjolras had never quite taken the time to admire the stars. He’d scoffed at the other warriors who would lie on the beach, claiming that their future or identity or destiny was somewhere up above. He hadn’t understood such flights of fancy; it wasn’t like the stars could write prophecies.

Though he supposed prophecies could be just as flighty. In the end, they were words supposedly written by the gods ages ago, and they only really had value because everyone on Themyscira believed they did.

Then again, Enjolras was one of those believers. If anything, he was the one who believed the most, seeing as he was currently adrift to some unknown war, accompanied only by a mortal spy and the God-killer.

He shifted his position once more to look towards the sword, eyes accidentally meeting Grantaire’s as he did so.

“Can’t sleep?” The captain remarked, arching a brow. It was quite admirable, really, how despite the ordeal he must have gone through, here he was, green eyes still holding that air of light mischief, figure draped lazily over the bags Enjolras brought as though he had not a care in the world.

Upon closer examination, however, the fatigue became clear—shadows beneath those brilliant eyes, a slight white strain to Grantaire’s knuckles, the way he seemed to be trying to sleep but to no avail, as he continued to stare blankly at the sky despite his apparent exhaustion.

Enjolras followed his gaze, and there were the stars once more. Despite his disdain for astronomy, he could still identify most of the constellations. “No,” he finally replied. “I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Missing home already?” Grantaire’s remark was derisive, and though Enjolras didn’t look back at him, he could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Of course not. It’s not even been one night, and besides, there is nothing back there for me.” A pang stole through Enjolras as he said it, but served as all the more proof that his words were true. 

The boards on the raft creaked slightly, and then Grantaire was beside him once more. “I mean, I don’t want to make you feel more homesick or anything, but . . . the people there cared about you, or they really seemed to.”

Enjolras laughed, a dry sound with no humor in it. “That’s how it must seem,” he replied, “but it could not be further from the truth.”

* * *

 

Grantaire had had enough identity crises to know when someone else was having one. Enjolras was certainly more composed than he ever was, but there was something blank and dissonant in the way his words sounded hollow and his stare was lost in the sky somewhere above. 

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too.” 

“There’s not much to say,” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire waited expectantly for him to elaborate further, contemplating something he could say to reassure him. It was only when he felt the brush of Enjolras’s hair against his neck that he realized he’d fallen asleep, head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

It should have been comforting to have someone close, to remind Grantaire that he was not alone in all this. But for some reason his heartbeat was now racing faster than before, and his breaths came out slightly more erratic, and he simultaneously wanted to never move again, and go back to the other end of the raft. 

He closed his eyes yet again, listening to the steady breaking of the waves in the vast sea surrounding them. Things had been so methodic before; he’d never been a true soldier and up until recently, his duties had been mostly clerical. Every day had been the same. The battles had raged on, and Grantaire had lived through the war via reports from Musichetta, his secretary.

Musichetta probably thought he was dead, he realized.

She was also the only one who probably gave a damn.

Honestly, that thought sounded remarkably similar to Enjolras’s words from earlier. 

He sighed, trying to match his breathing with the lull of the ocean. Close as he was to having an identity crisis of his own, he had a feeling tomorrow was going to be yet another mind-numbing sequence of supernatural events.

Right now, he needed to rest.

 


End file.
